Monday, July 1, 2013


(by Umberto Manzo)


Five minutes of naught but
copperized air between me
and our home star:
My allotment for the year.

We are laced together
by narrative and saying yeah
to one another's memory.
What could go wrong?

I am ravenous for wind on my neck,
the smell of soil,
finding folks of my own inclination,
locking my door.

Now as I hear the ball drop
and run down the channel to
a final click, number announced,
I know exactly what the loss
will be. Nothing for it
but to face the approach
with heat on my cheeks,
fingers curled in faith,
lips repeating love.


Maggie Jochild, 4:15 am, 29 June 2013

No comments: